


Answers in Gunsmoke

by Ruby_Blueeyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Cop!Dean, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Organized Crime, Soldier!Cas, lawyer!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Blueeyes/pseuds/Ruby_Blueeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester couldn't have picked more opposing ends of the same line of work- Sam is a public defense attorney, putting what Dean feels are the scumbags he's just cleaned off the street right back on them again. Dean is a deep cover detective, working a human trafficking case in what Sam sees as the most reckless and endangering way he could possibly do so. When a young Afghan war veteran becomes caught in the crossfire, Dean will do everything he can to protect his vic- but will his feelings for Castiel cross too many lines, and put the case and his charge in even more danger?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If you can't take the heat, get out of Hell's Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Thankies to my beta and co-awesome [hufflecas](hufflecase.tumblr.com) for making me do this madness in the first place.

It was April in New York, sweltering and freezing by turns, and Dean was just about sick of it. He hated the indecisive weather-- if it was going to be hot, just be hot damnit. Heat he could take, no matter how hot. Cold too--New York winters were pretty brutal if you weren’t wearing enough layers. Thick ones. As long as you were prepared, you couldn’t be bothered.

Right now though, he was wearing precisely the wrong type and number of layers for this screwy weather. The big, black, and baggy hoodie was too hot for the sunny days, and not enough protection from the wicked wind on the chilly days when winter tried to take back her grasp on Hell’s Kitchen. The thin (and a little too stained, even for him) grey wife-beater he was wearing underneath didn’t help matters at all. And this friggin’ stupid trend of wearing your pants like they were just holding on for dear life…

Dean gritted his teeth against the wind and hunched further into his hoodie. It helped him look the part of thuggy drug-pushing douchebag, that was for sure. Even then, he worried sometimes that he kept his hair too trimmed, but he’d be damned if he was going to wear that stupid John Lennon hair that Sam sported. Besides, if a perp couldn’t get a fistful of your hair, he couldn’t grab you by it, could he? One more lesson in safety from the infamous John Winchester.

 _Shut up,_ he muttered to himself. Waiting was the worst part of this job. Too much time to dwell. Get on task, think about the case, go over the protocol, what was the plan today? Not much. Sit outside on this freezing day waiting for some punk ass rookie soldier from the Irish Mafia to show his stupid ginger face so Dean could strike up a conversation. It was taking forever, and the warmth of the coffee he had cradled all morning had long since dissipated. He was starting to get edgy. He reached up to his right ear and turned on his Bluetooth.

“Dean, you need back up?”

 _Jo. Thank god._ Someone to break up the monotony. 

“No, it’s cool Jo. How are things in the nice warm lunchbox today?”

He could see her trying, in his mind’s eye, to twist her face into a frown when she really wanted to smile. She was probably playing solitaire on her phone in the control truck. He would catch hell from Ellen later for turning his tech on, but this was day three of no action and he needed to break things up. Jo huffed in his ear. 

“Boring as fuck. Which is no reason for you to be tapping in, Winchester. The last thing I need is to fill out the paperwork when you bust this cover because you got tired of sitting on your skinny ass.”

“Hey! Do not degrade a man’s ass when it is freezing, that’s just unfair. Speaking of ass, when are you going to let me take yours out for dinner?”

He thought he heard a little bit of longing in her sigh, just underneath the indignance. “When you stop referring to me as ass, you ass. Get back on your beat.”

“Love you too Jo. Over and out.”

Dean flicked his eyes up to the security camera hidden behind the gargoyle on the bank facade a block over, and gave her a shit-eating grin as he flicked his bluetooth back off. That was enough fun to last him for another hour. He was a simple guy-- entertainment didn’t take much. Hell, he’d be happy with a slinky. This waiting was just intolerable.

And as long as it had been, the wait was suddenly over. A flash of painfully stereotypical red hair popped up against the background of black and grey peacoats and dark umbrellas across the busy street. Dean’s breath spiked in his chest like lightning. _Finally,_ his body told his brain. _About damned time,_ his brain agreed, and he flashed Jo the high sign on camera before slouching toward the fairly oblivious target. The guy didn’t even look both ways to cross the street for chrissakes. He wasn’t going to see Dean coming. 

They called it ‘linebacker ballet’ in training. Timing the hit so that you glanced off the target, but with just enough speed and force that they paid attention to you, didn’t write you off as just another New Yorker pushing their way through a crowd. Maybe it was just his friendly nature, but Dean liked to close the deal by clapping a hand on the other person’s shoulder sometimes, when he thought they really needed the encouragement to look at him. This asshole had stood him up for three days-- he was getting the clap.

… A little too hard. Dean wound up practically picking the guy up off the sidewalk. Shit-- that might have been too far. 

“Whoa, man, sorry, I’m sorry, I was totally out of it, you okay?”

The ginger stood up with Dean’s help, a little disgruntled but surprisingly un-pissed off. He brushed off his frayed prep boy jeans and athletics hoodie. He could have walked out of an American Eagle magazine instead of a Mafia Don’s penthouse.

“Dude, it’s a street, not a football field,” preppy boy opined. 

“Yeah, no, I just had my music on, y’know? You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s cool, don’t worry about it. Most people don’t even stick around to help you up.”

Wow. This guy was kinda cool. This was going to be even easier than Dean had thought. “People suck, what can you do? I’m Hank Campbell.” Dean stuck out his hand to the other man, trying not to wince at how lame his cover name was. Ellen and Bobby had picked it out. 

The redheaded man half-smiled and shook his head, then took Dean’s hand. “Name’s Michael.”

“O’Malley, O’Grady or O’Hare?”

The man raised his eyes toward his hairline with a sheepish grin and laughed. “McGillicutty, but you got the Irish right. Be careful though, some redheads are Scotsmen, and those bastards will mess you up.”

“Point taken. Sorry again man.”

“No worries, have a good day.”

Friggin’ polite for a gangster. Dean started to walk away, slowly counting to three, before turning quickly, naturally. 

“Hey Michael!” he called. The man turned, raising his eyebrows in question, then came striding back. Awesome, fish on the hook. Now for line and sinker…

“I’m new here..and you seem nice.” _Nice?! Lame. Get in character. Its been too long since I’ve been under cover,_ he thought. _I’ve lost the lingo._

“Yeah?”

“I just thought-- not making assumptions man, but I like to relax on the weekends, and you look like someone who might know where to pick up a toke...”

Michael’s face brightened, if that was even possible with his pale skin. His narrow face seemed to stretch out a bit in a smile and balance into something friendly. His body relaxed into a more open posture. _There it is,_ thought Dean. _Just a little closer, fish._

“Sure, Meg’s Bistro, two blocks that way. Talk to Matthew, he’ll be around about now. Really tall guy, six footer, black jacket. Can’t miss him.”

“Awesome, thanks. I had to get out of Jersey pretty quick, and I don’t have that many connections up here. Just me or is it getting harder to pick up a dime?”

“Nah, not so bad. You found one now hey? Actually…”

Michael reached into a pocket and pulled out-- was that a business card? Jesus, screw reeling him in, this guy was practically leaping into the boat and onto the grill. He handed the small blue card over to Dean, and winked meaningfully. 

“If you want something a little heavier than a dime, look me up.”

When Dean grinned this time, it was as genuine as it got. This couldn’t have been easier. Was he good? He was so good, baby! He took the card, flipping it between his fingers before sliding it into his pocket. He noticed Michael’s eyes following his hand, and the lightbulb went on. _That’s why it was so easy,_ he thought. _Michael’s bread is buttered on the other side._ He almost couldn’t wait to tell Jo. She was going to laugh her ass off. 

“I will, really. Thanks!”

And with a slightly sly smile, Michael headed off into the crowd. Dean reached up to his ear, almost laughing already, and walked in the opposite direction. 

“Deadite to Cabin-- contact made. And Jo, you are not going to fucking _believe_ this…”

 

⧫

“Tuesday is your last day at the precinct,” Bobby said absently, shuffling through the myriad of books and papers on his desk looking for the one God-be-damned pen that he never seemed to have when he needed it. “After that, you’re under. This isn’t your first rodeo, so I’m not going to read you the riot act. And I’m not going to lecture you about last time-- you did what you had to do, son, and nobody questions that. I just need you to avoid blowing this cover, at all costs.” Bobby leveled a heavy stare at Dean across the desk, and Dean simply nodded his understanding. In this particular instance, it wasn’t wise to say much. “ _At. All. Costs._ We’re looking at a lot of lives on the line here if this is going down the way intel says it is. You got me?”

“Yessir,” Dean said, and then shared a smile with his boss. “We’re going to bring these bastards down Bobby, I know it.”

Bobby nodded. “I know you want to. Just be careful-- it’s no picnic going off the res. Contact every other day at the 24-hour news stand on West 50th and 11th. Ash, Jo, and Ellen are your primary team. Charlie is going to rotate, Benny is your backup, and you know the rest of the crew. Files are already on your desk but knowing you, you've probably read them twice and won't touch them again. Anything else?”

Dean shook his head. There was a look in Bobby's eye that he didn't like. It wasn't pity, exactly. You didn't feel that way about it when other badges hit shitty breaks-- everyone knew what they were signing up for and if they didn't they found out real quick-- but you shared that pain, silently, in camaraderie. Because you had been there. What he saw in Bobby looked uncomfortably like someone feeling sorry for him, and he wasn't going to have that. Pity was dangerous; people started making excuses for you, letting something go they would have called you on otherwise, and suddenly a little mistake way back at the start of a case costs someone big. Sometimes a life.

Sometimes your mother.

 _Knock it off,_ he scowled to himself, and turned to go. He clapped a hand on the doorframe on his way out, an old signal between the two men that things were solid and that he shouldn't worry. Bobby would anyway, though. There were a precious few perks of having your uncle for a boss, but knowing that someone who really understood the job was there for you and would back you up, that was a big one.

Having the other dicks in the station house curse you under their breaths and accusations of _favoritism_ scream from their eyes every time they looked at you was not. Dean kept a low profile as he made his way toward his desk, and the phone call he'd been dreading all week. They had a right to be angry, the other covert ops badges. He probably shouldn't be on this case after the cock-up in Jersey City, but Bobby knew that benching him for too long would be more trouble than it was worth. Dean Winchester with no case was nothing but a brute with a GED and a give 'em hell attitude, and everyone knew it.

He sat down at his desk, neat not from his own effort but from a simple lack of being there. Things stayed clean when things didn't get personal. Aside from a single family photo there was nothing on the desk that claimed it as his. Ignoring two come-hithers from the definitely under twenty-five interns and more than a few disgusted looks from the other badges, he reached into his jacket for his cell phone. He flipped it to his ear before the picture of Sam popped onto the screen as it dialed, not wanting to even glimpse his brother’s face. This was going to suck enough as it was. 

It took three rings before Sam picked up. Busy guy.

“Sam Winchester, attorney at law, how can I help you?”

“Hey Sammy.”

“Dean…”

 

⧫

 

Halfway across the city, Sam Winchester leaned back in his chair and away from his alfalfa sandwich, almost exactly mirroring the way Dean was sitting in his. Surprise and relief slipped into his voice as he dropped the professional tone. “Man, I haven’t heard from you in over a week, are you all right?”

“I’m awesome. How are you, how’s your caseload?”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his ever lengthening hair. Someday he would get enough time for a cut. Just not that smart-ass ex-military look that his brother favoured. The fact was, Sam hated the look of his own ears. Long hair was functional and stylish. 

“Heavy, as usual. Lot of domestics lately, a couple of really nasty ones that got into custody and child service issues. I hate those. Kids getting caught in the middle is the worst.”

“Yeah, I hear ya. Those are the worst. Listen, Sam--”

Sam’s stomach dropped. ‘Listen, Sam’ were the two words he hated hearing most out of Dean’s mouth. They always meant bad news, usually the kind that landed his brother in the hospital. Or worse, the liquor store. After the last ride on that particular merry-go-round, Sam was almost convinced that Dean was finally going to leave the force. He was burning out, Sam knew it, but good luck telling Dean that. Good luck telling Dean anything. 

“-- I might be out of touch for a month or two. Maybe longer. I hope not longer, but you never know.”

“Deanyoucan’t--” Sam could feel the words rushing out of his mouth along with the pent up air he had been holding for what felt like minutes. He tried to slow himself down but a wave of panic seemed to rush and and tumble everything out of him all at once. “-gobackundercovertheyshotyoulasttimeyoushouldbedead!”

Silence, for a heavy moment. 

“Well, I’m not. And I have to. Besides, this isn’t Jersey-- last time I was out of my precinct on loan because they needed a blank face for that job. This is home turf for me. It’s not connected to the Jersey job, they’re running a completely different racket. I won’t be in any more danger than normal.”

“Are you still drinking?”

Dean ignored the question.

“I’ll be fine Sammy, I promise. You know I can’t just sit here, I gotta get back in the game. You don’t want me drinking, then I need to be working. I don’t…” _Shit Dean, don’t get emotional now,_ Dean thought to himself. _You had your chance for that with Sammy last time and you blew it._ “I don’t want to end up like dad was. Capice?”

“I hear you, okay, I do, but don’t you think this is too soon? You’re just now on your feet again.”

“I can handle it. Besides, Bobby put Ellen and Jo on me, you think they’re gonna let anything happen?”

 _Not if I talk to them it won’t,_ thought Sam. 

“No, of course not.”

Silence again, as each man relived his memories of the past six months; Sam watching Dean prone in a hospital bed,tubes and needles and IV’s going God-knew-where in and out of his older brother’s body, Dean healing far faster on the outside than he ever would on the inside, knowing that his decisions probably cost at least three lives, on both sides of the fence. It would have been unbearable, if it weren’t for their family. 

“Are we ever gonna talk about this Dean?”

“Talk about what?”

“About what happened last winter.”

“Someday. I promise. But it just ain’t today. Jo will keep you up to date.”

“Who is your backup?”

“Benny.”

“Christ.”

“Think what you want, I trust him.”

“He’s an addict.”

“Was an addict.”

A breath. 

“There’s never a was Dean. Not once you’ve gone down that road.”

“Well he’s clean right now, and thats what matters. Right?”

“...Right.”

“Ok. I go Tuesday, want to get burgers or something before then?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

“Ok. Talk to you soon, Sam.”

“Dean--”

 _Be safe,_ he wanted to say, but the phone had already clicked, and his brother never listened anyway. He put the phone down and clasped his hands, leaning his elbows on the cheap metal and particle board desk that looked like children’s furniture in comparison to his long and muscled frame. He looked at his sandwich with mild distaste, his appetite gone in the wake of his own hollow words. 

_There’s never a_ was, _Dean. Not once you’ve gone down that road._

No, Sam didn’t trust Benny. He would never trust an addict, former or otherwise. 

Because he knew he couldn’t trust them in the same way he didn’t trust himself. 

The phone on his desk rang, and Sam reached for it without thinking. Back into the fray.


	2. The slow build to the quick drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Jimmy Novak cross paths, and purposes.

Work was steady, but infuriatingly time consuming. Dean had so far only bought a couple of dime bags off of Michael’s contact; he hadn’t seen Michael since the day they connected. He was slowly but surely making himself a familiar face around Meg’s Bistro, making friends, chatting up waitresses, acting the New York newcomer to a T. He even had a hot date with a woman named Cassie-- but he was pretty sure she wasn’t in the life, just a bystander, and so he had to pretend as though he didn’t want anything more out of it.

 

Which was the other major downside, because the chick was hot as hell and he had a thing for chocolate brown eyes.

 

And yet, rules were rules. Unless you absolutely, positively could not avoid it, no touching, no tasting, no nothing. Protection for everyone. You didn’t get too attached, they couldn’t get too close, and no kids showed up to complicate things. It had happened to some undercovers in Britain a few years ago- getting too close, having kids, the whole nine yards, and it made Dean sick to think about. His own childhood had been bad enough, he couldn’t imagine what the lives of those children would be like.

 

Dean finished his soda and the last two bites of an Inferno Dog (Meg’s speciality, a hot italian brat with five alarm chili, cheese and onions) and got ready to go. He’d bummed around the joint for a few hours today, chatting up some of Michael’s delivery boys. He was making headway, but he was feeling cooped up and needed the walk. He waved at Meg, who always regarded him with a grin that made him feel she was either going to kiss or devour him at any given moment, and headed out into the evening. She gave him the creeps a little. Besides, pixie cuts weren't his thing. He waved back, and slid out the door.

 

If things didn't heat up soon, he was going to have to use the business card and call Michael. He wanted to, God knew it would make things go faster- but fast got you dead most of the time. This required finesse, planning, time.

 

Fuck time. He needed to move.

 

He walked north, taking side streets when he could, getting the lay of the neighbourhood.  He memorized alleys he could duck into and shortcuts to be taken in the event of an emergency. His path took him past the men’s shelter, and he stood for a moment, watching the windows of the quiet brown building light up as dusk faded into dark. He liked this particular shelter- it looked friendlier than the others. Probably because it actually had just a tiny bit of a garden. He could appreciate a place with some green.

 

Dean loved his job on principle-- it meant putting bad guys where they belonged. But like any job, there were things that you hated, places you had to go where you dreaded every moment. For him, it was the acting.

 

Going undercover was about making friends. Friends that you knew you were very likely going to be putting in jail, beating bloody, be forced to shoot at, or otherwise screw over in some way, shape, or form. People with real lives, children, spouses, people who had barbecues and poker nights and who, in one memorable instance, asked you to be a godfather to their newborn. People you sometimes liked, and whom you always desperately wished had chosen some other life than this. Because eventually the time would come when you had to roll on them, and that always ended in despair. It was hard not to think of his mother in these situations, because this was the part he hated most; sure he got rid of a lot of scumbags, but someone he cared for on a basic human level always got hurt. Mary’s voice often rang in his head at these times, but it wasn’t a voice of comfort, just a source of more thought and confusion.

 

 

⧫

 

_Lawrence, Kansas, 1988_

 

Dean had come home from the playground that day scraped and bloody, most of the blood not his own. It was scary to see on a six year old, but there was little in the world that made Mary Winchester turn an eyelash. She was quiet as she gently washed the blood and mud off her eldest's face, waiting for Dean to start the conversation, watching pride and shame and defiance and guilt war for dominance in his eyes. Some children just found their battle young.

 

"It wasn't my fault," he said finally, tersely, unconvincingly. His eyes flinched away from his mother's amused and benevolent gaze. "He was being bad. I stopped him mom. That's what good guys do."

 

"Oh yes? How did you stop him?"

 

Dean shifted in discomfort, holding his arm to his side.

 

"He wouldn't stop pushing. So I pushed him back."

 

"I see."

 

Clean up finished, Mary started to put her first aid kit away. Silence was it's own pressure, and she was skilled in letting it do her work. Dean frowned, looking inward. Something wasn’t right here. She didn’t seem convinced. She wasn’t _un_ convinced, and yet…

 

“He was pushing hard. And Alastair is always bad anyway. He says bad words to the girls in class and they cry, and he makes Ms. McCallum angry, and he never shares and he throws things and so I pushed him back and he deserved it. Right mom?”

 

Mary leveled a gaze at her son, weighing her words carefully. Dean was a conundrum, one that she appreciated and worried for. The stocky little boy had always possessed a strange maturity that was directly in opposition to his six year old idealism. He knew the world was slightly more complicated than good guys and bad guys-- but he didn’t want it to be more complicated. And Dean followed his own drummer in regards to what he wanted to be the case. He sniffled a little bit, and she softened.

 

“Did you ever think to ask him why he was being mean?”

 

“No, he’s mean 'cause he’s bad.”

 

Ah. The nut of the problem.

 

“Dean,” said Mary, kneeling down to meet her son eye to eye. His face was so soft and young, but his eyes were the colour of an old leaf hanging on to summer in the midst of fall. She could already see the tight planes and angles that would appear in his adult face, and she almost wanted to cry.

 

“Dean, I want you to listen to me very carefully, because this is the truth, no matter what your father or any other grown up ever says to you. I am your mother, and I will always tell you the truth, do you understand me?”

 

The boy nodded apprehensively.

 

“People are not good or bad. There’s no such thing as good or evil. People are just people, and they make decisions. Sometimes those decisions hurt other people, and we think of those decisions as bad. People can always make a different choice. Someone you might think is the best person in the world might make the worst choice that hurts lots of people. Someone who might seem like the worst, most evil person might make a choice that helps everyone. You can’t think of people as good or bad, Dean, because it means you won’t be ready to understand when they make a different choice. You always have a choice. And so does everyone else.”

 

He frowned, clearly wrestling with the matter. A quiet Dean was a thoughtful Dean, and she knew he would likely be quiet for a while, until he had sorted the matter out to his own satisfaction.

 

“So, next time Alastair is mean, why don’t you ask him why he makes that decision before you make your decision?”

 

Dean nodded and kissed his mother on the cheek. She watched him as he walked slowly away to his room. Her son the warrior. Now if she could only foster the scholar in him as well. Her heart was almost painful with pride in him.

 

A week later she was gone.

 

⧫

  
  


Twenty-two years later that conversation still haunted Dean. He had never put that day, that moment, quite to bed. It was sketched into his memory as a moment of grey in his black and white world, and the grey areas of life had always scared him. Monsters that hid in the darkness with their guns and knives and evil intentions, those he could fight, those he understood. And the civilians he lived for and would die to protect, he understood them. But the people who lived in the middle, those are the ones who scared him the most. You never knew which way they would roll when shit started to fly.

 

But that time wasn’t quite yet. For now, time was quiet in the little garden of the men's shelter as he considered his next move.

  
  
  


Above him, from the 3rd floor, a pair of blue eyes regarded Dean quietly, pensively, recognizing something in the posture and the movement of his arms, the spread of his feet, the way he held his weight. The eyes narrowed, a brief frown creasing the otherwise open and gentle face. Was this someone he had known? Someone who was looking for him, or who he had been looking for? He felt strongly that the answer to one of those questions was yes, but simply couldn’t say why. He couldn’t make out much more than the man’s build in the darkness, the clean line of the jaw and a thin straight nose. Something tugged at him, something like memory with claws that said pay attention. Something like instinct. And instinct made him move.

 

He threw on his khaki trenchcoat against the chill of the April evening, and headed toward the door.

 

“Hey, Jimmy!”

 

That name. It never felt quite right to him, he always had to remind himself to turn when he heard it. He knew that's who he was supposed to be, who the dog tags around his neck said he was, and yet he still felt that Jimmy didn’t fit him. You should always on some level recognize your own name.

 

He turned anyway, raising his eyebrows at Sonny. The kindly ex-con strode up the hallway towards him, hand raised in greeting. Jimmy raised his back slightly, but felt urgently that he didn’t have time for this. He needed to catch up to the man on the street.

 

“Where are you off to this time of night? Its almost lock up time.”

 

“Oh...yes. Well, I was hoping to go out, stretch my legs. I’ve been feeling... restless.”

 

Sonny nodded slowly. It was their code word for the bad things, the feelings that Jimmy couldn’t deal with in his waking hours, so his body and mind sometimes did it for him in his sleep. A restless Jimmy meant another ride on the PTSD merry-go-round was possibly imminent.

 

“May I walk?”

 

The older man smiled a bit, then fished in his pocket for a key. “If you’re not back by midnight, I gotta put out an APB on you, Jimmy. You know Naomi won’t like it if you’ve worn yourself out too much for therapy tomorrow.”

 

Jimmy wished his friend would hurry. The man outside could already be gone.

 

“I’ll be fine. And back in plenty of time, you have my word. Goodnight, Sonny.”

 

“Night Jimmy, and hang the keys up when you get in!”

 

And in a rustle of trenchcoat, Jimmy...or whoever he was, if he wasn’t Jimmy, was gone.

 

He almost raced out the door, but caught himself when he realized that the other man hadn’t gone anywhere, crouching and admiring the little garden instead. Jimmy held his breath and stood in the double glass doorway, trying to squint hard enough to recognize the man in the shadow. The figure stood up slowly, then continued down the street at a leisurely pace, with little care in the world.

 

 _I could follow him_ , Jimmy thought to himself, and at once regarded the concept as absurd. Why wouldn’t he simply approach the man? That was the most straightforward way to deal with this problem.

 

_Because I don’t know what I would say, exactly.Hello, I’m Jimmy Novak, except that sometimes I think that I might not be, nice to meet you, unless we’ve already met in which case can you tell me who I am please?_

 

No, better to follow him to where the light was better. If he recognized the man, or even felt more strongly that he needed to talk to him, then it would be better done in decent lighting anyway. Maybe he would invite the man for coffee over this strange set of circumstances, and thereby make a new friend. That was a nice thought. _Besides, I like the set of his shoulders. I think he’s honest._

He had no idea why he thought that. But something gave him surety.

 

And through the streets of New York, Jimmy Novak followed Dean Winchester, who followed his gut through the streets, looking for trouble.

 

In the darkness, something else followed them.

 

 


	3. A Bird in the Hand

Chapter 3

A bird in the hand.

 

               Dean felt a vague discomfort between his shoulder blades. He was being followed. Since the men’s shelter. Maybe someone was hard up for a hit and thought they could do business. Maybe it was a mugger. Either way, he needed to relax a little if he was going to deal with whatever it was. Probably nothing. Maybe something. He quickened his pace, walking through his interior map of the streets a little bit faster, looking for hiding places or exits or places he could get his back to a wall. He listened acutely all the while to the footsteps behind him, forcing himself not to tense up. There were now two pairs of footbeats behind him. He chuckled a little-- it never occurred to him in these moments that it could just be normal, everyday people out for an evening stroll. Too many years on the force. Too many years of inherent suspicion. He loved it. He grinned and ducked out of sight into an alley.

 

Behind him, Maybe-Jimmy was starting to wonder where the short haired man ahead of him was going-- he appeared to be walking with purpose, but he wasn’t heading in a direction that would take him toward any of the coffee shops or food carts. In fact, he seemed to deliberately walking down darker, narrower side streets and neighborhoods with no pattern or design. It should have made him nervous-- instead, he became more determined to track the man down. It was starting to not matter whether there was light or not to see by; he needed to know. He needed to look into the face of the man and see if he was right, if some recognition would spur him toward truths that always danced away from his seeking mind in the long nights spent awake.

Ahead of him the man turned a corner, and he quickened his pace, determined not to lose his quarry. He turned the same corner, only to find himself facing an empty alleyway. Maybe-Jimmy was instantly hyper aware of his surroundings, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet, his arms crooked at his sides in readiness to grapple. He was unarmed, and the immediate nakedness of the feeling left him edging toward worry. This was going south, fast. Had he made a mistake?

An arm like an iron band snaked across his chest from behind, and a silver pin prick of pain at his throat told him that yes, a mistake had been made. He hadn’t covered his six by getting against the wall. The scent of alcohol and something stale warned him that it may have been a fatal mistake.

“Nice coat. Got anything in the pockets? Answer better be yes, or your coat won’t be so nice in a minute.”

There was a cool feeling as a rivulet of blood trickled down his neck and hit the evening air. He raised his hands a little in the universal sign of surrender, but said nothing.

“You gonna answer me, or am I gonna cut you?”

He wanted to clear his throat, and the cold sliver of the knife made the itch to do just that even worse. He focused on breathing through his nose instead.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything. If you are hungry or in need of support, I can--”

“Shut up.”

His assailant flipped him around and slammed him against the wall, driving the air from his lungs with a faint whoosh. He found himself more upset that the attacker was not the man he had been following than the fact that he was being mugged. The forearm with the knife crossed his windpipe, effectively cutting off his air and painting the world in smoky swirls of grey. He struggled against panic, waiting for his opportunity to strike. It would come. Let the aggressor think he is in control. He felt rather than saw his pockets being searched. His heart stumbled a little into fear when the intruding hand stopped in his front slacks pocket, closing around the keys-- and then pressing with mind numbing pain between his legs.

This was not going well.

“You got fuckin’ nothin, nothin! I’m going to fuck you up so bad you little cock sucker, I’m gonna--”

The pain was unbearable, and he couldn’t get enough air. Whatever else the voice said was drowned out by the humming rush of blood in his ears. This was not a fight that he could win, not with that knife involved. He should have made his move sooner. He should have been paying attention. The arm moved off his neck and he choked in a breath, only to feel the press of the knife against his ribcage as the mugger slammed him up against the wall again. Maybe if he could just--

 _Oh shit oh shit_ , Dean’s brain babbled at him. This was precisely what he didn’t need-- a mugger with a knife and a civilian in the mix. He watched from his vantage point behind the dumpster, struggling with himself to make a call. He had spent too much time on this case to blow his cover over some trench coat mafia wanna-be getting himself sliced up in an alley, but he couldn’t stand by either. Guy hadn’t even done anything. _Except follow me down a dark alley like a complete noob_ , he thought, but he was running out of time for thoughts like that. The perp had taken his arm off trench coat’s throat and he was getting ready to rib tickle with that switchblade in his left hand. _Fuck-a-doodle-do._

The mugger grinned at Jimmy, his teeth surprisingly clean and bright in the dim light. And sharp looking. Jimmy shook his head, trying to clear it, looking for a move that would get that knife away from his side. He kept his arms pressed to the wall, gritting his teeth as he felt the blade scrape across his skin, hissing as it drew a thin line across his abdomen. This wasn’t a mugging-- this was torture. He relaxed against the wall, preparing to throw himself against the mugger as a last resort. It was going to hurt. Movement at his ten-- was someone there? He prayed briefly for just that.

And was shocked when he got it.

“Let him go.”

The voice was low and relaxed, like evening in autumn, complete with a chill bite. _The man he had been following!_ It was a new voice, he had never heard it before, and yet already its cadence felt familiar. He did not lift his eyes yet, however-- this would be his one precious chance. The mugger on the other hand snapped his head around to see who had joined the party.

Mistake.

“Who the fu--” Dean watched in disbelief as trench coat flew into action. He snapped his head down into the perp’s face and brought his right knee up into his gut in one swift motion, with a crack like a firework sounding off in the darkness. He would be shocked if the perp’s cheekbone wasn’t fractured. Trench coat spun away from the flailing of the knife, bringing one elbow down between the mugger’s shoulder blades and knocking him to the ground. The switchblade fell with a rattle, and Dean dove for it, snatching it up and flipping it closed as he stood, feeling more than a little impotent in the face of friggin' Neo from the Matrix’ smooth moves. Right up until Neo started to kneel,breathing heavily, a hand covering his stomach. Dean stepped up and pressed his booted foot to the prone mugger’s wrist. This was one crazy situation.

“Hey, asshole. I’m keeping this knife-- you get to keep breathing. I’m gonna count to three and if your sorry ass is still within fifty yards of this spot, I’m gonna gank you, you get me? I’m just gonna punctuate that statement.”

Dean crunched down hard on the perp’s wrist, knowing the man didn’t have enough air to scream properly, not with the hit he took. Bones ground beneath his toes, he could feel them through the sole of his boot. He caught the agonized expression on trench coat’s face as he continued to catch his breath, and pressed down on the wrist vengefully one more time. “You catch my drift? Now start running, and don’t let me catch you on this block again. One--”

The mugger scrambled to his feet, not even looking Dean in the eye. “Two--” Feet hit pavement at a sorry, stumbling pace, but the scumbag was moving. “Three.” Around the corner they could hear the sounds of retching as the mugger fled in a slow panic, clutching his wrist to his chest. Dean was tempted to laugh, when he turned and caught sight of the blood on trench coat’s hands. The laugh died on his lips, and he hurried over, kneeling before the dark haired man. One arm was tucked tight to his stomach, but Dean could see where the dirty white dress shirt and the flesh beneath it had been rent, and fresh tracks of blood were spreading onto the trench coat sleeve. Dean threw out his arm to catch trench coat by the shoulder, stopping him from toppling to the side, and found himself to be equally out of breath as the other man raised eyes like blue galaxies to his.

“I think I may be injured,” he gasped out in a voice like wet silk dragged over stones. Dean could only nod.

“Yeah buddy, I think that's an understatement. I gotta lay you down to have a look, that okay?”

Trench coat nodded, and made his way to the ground, Dean more than half lowering the man’s full weight. He was pale underneath his tanned skin, a colorlessness that continued down his torso as Dean unbuttoned the dress shirt and ripped aside the pieces of undershirt that were obstructing his view of the wound. It was jagged, and not as shallow as Dean had hoped, but not life threatening. As long as the guy didn’t go into shock, he could handle this.

“Keep talking to me buddy, what’s your name?”

Trench coat hissed as Dean made pads out of ripped shirt and pressed them to the cut. “Jimmy Novak. I think. I’m not sure. I was... hoping... you could tell me…” Jimmy’s breath was shallow, and a thick sheen of sweat covered his forehead. Dean’s heart sank. If this guy passed out, he would have to call an ambulance instead of just walking him to the nearest ER, or getting him a cab, and that was noise he couldn’t handle.

“Okay, uh, Jimmy, gotta stay with me here ok buddy? It’s not... well okay, it's not good, but you’re gonna be fine. I need you to stay conscious until I can get you a cab, 'kay? They’ll get you to the ER.”

Dean moved Jimmy’s good hand to hold the padding and then checked his body with gentle hands for other injuries, professionalism taking over with his First Aid training. A good thing too-- Jimmy was one fit son-of-a-bitch, and in other circumstances, this would have been a hell of a lot more pleasant. Especially with those big lazy eyes and sexed up hair. Dean could--

Dean could hear the sub-woofers, a dragged out beat that spelled trouble this time of night on these particular streets. _Fuck. Little asswipe probably called his buddies. Why didn’t I check him for a phone? Shit shit shit!_ “Jimmy, listen to me. We gotta move, right now, or this is going to get ugly really quick.”

Panic flashed in Jimmy’s eyes, but was gone as swiftly as it appeared. Dean had to admire the guy’s control.

“He went... for reinforcements.”

Dean slid an arm under Jimmy’s shoulders, and finished tying off the pads with the last strip of what had been Jimmy’s undershirt.

“Yeah, he did. Upsy-daisy.”

Jimmy’s face was a study in determination as he and Dean clambered to their feet. He tucked his arm in again to his side, and looked at his rescuer grimly. “Lead the way,” he said, eyes honed in on Dean. Dean nodded, sliding a shoulder under Jimmy’s. It was four blocks to his apartment. If they were sneaky and lucky, they could make it. Dean clenched his jaw.

“Let's go.”

 

⧫

        It took nearly forty-five minutes, most of that spent ducking behind dumpsters and garbage and on one memorable occasion hiding pressed together in a narrow doorway while the sounds of running and swearing and bad rap music swirled around them. Both men were tall, but Dean was broader in shoulder and just a little bit taller than his ward, so he tucked Jimmy close to his chest to make them both smaller and give the injured man just a little more protection. Jimmy didn’t argue-- in fact, he didn’t say a blessed thing or even so much as wince until Dean was certain they had lost their pursuers and was busily digging out the keys to his slummy apartment. Jimmy held himself up against the doorframe until Dean could support him again, and together they stumbled into the room, Dean kicking the door closed behind him with his foot. Jimmy’s breathing had shallowed out again, and he was worried that Jimmy was going to pass out on him. He genuinely couldn’t think of anyone who could have held up this long under these circumstances, not even Benny. He was impressed.

Jimmy of course chose that moment to drop like a stone.

Dean was faster, scooping an arm under his legs and gently depositing him on the threadbare couch. He made for the kitchen, putting together a glass of water and grabbing the first aid kit. He hoped to God he still had smelling salts in there somewhere. He was pretty sure he did. Bobby always remembered little things like that when they were setting up a new bolt hole. _There, next to the hydrogen peroxide_. He added both items to the bundle in his arms and returned to the couch, dumping everything on the floor and tucking his arm behind Jimmy’s shoulders to sit him up slightly. He handed the glass of water to the fading man, watching him drink it down slowly. Dean’s eyes narrowed, putting little pieces together. Who was this guy? He was no civilian, that was for damned sure. Jimmy nodded slightly, handing back the glass, and Dean laid him back down to work on the knife wound.

It had crusted in the time it took them to get to the apartment, and Dean went back to the kitchen to heat some water and dig up some clean towels. This situation was getting more complex by the minute, and he didn’t like it.

“Thank you. Don’t know your name.”

“D--Hank.”

 _Whoa. Almost slipped_.

“Diminutive for Henry.”

“Uh...yeah, I guess. Jimmy short for James, obviously.”

“I don’t think that's my name.”

Dean re-entered the living room with a bowl of warm water and a clean washcloth, sitting crosslegged next to Jimmy on the floor. He removed the padding gingerly, wincing as Jimmy hissed out a breath at the pain. “Yeah, you said something about that earlier. Why the hell were you following me, man? This place is fucking dangerous, that was a stupid risk you took.”

Dean could swear the guy almost smiled.

“Worth it. Pretty sure you can help me figure out who I am. You’re... familiar.”

“Dude, I have never seen you before in my life, believe me. I would--”

 _Know your eyes anywhere_.

“I would know.”

He dipped the cloth in the warm water, and gently began to wash the blood away from the planes of Jimmy’s body. The cut didn’t look as bad with the blood and grime cleansed from it, and the flesh around the wound wasn’t as hot as Dean had feared it might be.

“So why don’t you think you’re Jimmy?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Jimmy didn't _seem_ like a crazy, but that was never proof of anything.

 “Feels wrong. That was the name on my dog tags when they found me-- but my body doesn’t answer to that name. I don’t feel that I am him.”

Dog tags? So that explained it.

“Ex-military huh? And you thought I would recognise you why?”

“The way you were standing. How you held yourself. I was watching you from the window and I… followed my instinct.” Jimmy fell silent, and Dean nodded, dipping a new cloth in hydrogen peroxide and cleaning up the torn skin. He knew what that was like.

“Ok, you played a hunch, I get it. But dude, that’s a crazy instinct. I’m a criminal for all you know. And a complete and total stranger. You’re just lucky I’ve got a soft spot for blue eyes, angel.” Dean grinned and winked at the other man, attempting to lighten the mood. Jimmy simply levelled a half lidded gaze at him, managing to look sleepy and stern at the same time.

“You are not a criminal. You are a righteous man. And I owe you my life.”

Dean turned his gaze back to the work at hand, uncomfortable with the praise, and began to tape his patient up. “You don’t owe me nothin’ Jimmy, or whoever you are. Let’s just get you finished up and then we’ll get you a cab to the hospital, okay?”

But there was no reply, and Dean turned just in time to see Jimmy’s eyelids flutter closed into sleep.

_Great. Fucking brilliant. Now what?_

Dean sighed, and finished his work, even wiping away the last dried trickle of blood from Jimmy’s neck. He fetched a blanket from the end of his bed, folding it gently under Jimmy’s good arm. Poor crazy bastard. Ah well. He hadn’t lost enough blood to be in any danger, there was no fever, and everything was clean. Dean figured his mystery guest would be all right for one evening. There was little else the ER could do that Dean hadn’t beyond stitch him up anyway. It would have to wait until Dean could get him to the curb and into a cab.

Why did that idea give him pause?

Dean turned, drying his hands and arms on his very last clean towel, and studied the man on the couch. Still muscular, long in the torso, skin dark with a tan. Must have come recently back from the front. But living in a New York men’s shelter and not back with his family, or on a base somewhere? That was strange. That spoke of hiding out and living on the run. Buddy was brave as hell too, the way he’d handled that mugger, so he wasn’t running out of fear of something he had done; Dean felt instinctively that this guy was a straight arrow. So what was it? It wasn’t as simple as mistaken identity.

 _It also isn’t your problem, Winchester,_ he reminded himself with a firm shake of his head. _You’ve got a fish named Michael to fry_.

But still he took a photo of the slumbering man on his personal cell, and fired it off to Ash with a two word message.

**Find him.**


	4. Song and Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there's smoke, there's Ruby.

Chapter 4

 

Song and Dance

  
  


“I know, I know. Yes, yes I know it’s the end of the month. Mrs. Kavelstiek, I-- Mhhm. Mrs. Kavelstiek, I don’t think you understand. You don’t have to pay me ma’am, the government does that. I am your daughter’s court appointed lawyer. And I’m doing everything I can to help her. Y--”

 

Sam snatched a glance at the Star Wars clock with the LED lightsaber arms that Dean had gotten him last Christmas, and tried not to groan at the time. He didn’t begrudge the poor woman on the phone-- her English was not the best, and explaining the American judicial system even to born and bred Americans was often an exercise in futility. But he had hoped to put in a slightly less than fourteen hour day today, and he was already crawling toward hour fifteen. He knew he should be grateful-- he had his own desk, his own office, and if he wanted he could even have a decent spot in a private practice earning enough to put more vegetables and less mac and cheese in his diet. But the idea never felt quite right to him, didn’t sit well in his bones. Being a big money lawyer just wasn’t as important to him as being a good lawyer. Dean’s influence, all the way. Bastard.

 

He smiled fondly into the phone as Mrs. Kavelstiek ranted away, thinking of his brother. God, he hoped Dean was safe. He knew he was-- Bobby and the crew kept daily tabs, and Bobby kept Sam in the loop, but still. Jersey had been too close of a call. He still woke up in a cold sweat sometimes, thinking of the hell that Dean had endured and come out the other side. He had tried talking him into going back to beat work, or at least consider trying to make full detective. Not that such a position was much safer, but at least he wouldn’t be in constant danger. But try talking Dean Winchester out of anything.

 

Sam brushed his hair out of his face, using the heel of his hand to rub the ache from between his eyes. A shadow of movement at the doorway caused him to glance upward, and he smiled back at Ruby as she flicked her fingers at him in a tiny hello. She tilted her head, glancing at the phone in silent communication, and he shook his head, raising his eyebrows in the eternal office phone language of ‘this-person-is-taking-forever-just-shoot-me-now’. Ruby smiled and shook her head pityingly as he attempted once more to re-route the increasingly vocal Mrs. Kavelstiek.

 

“Ma’am… you don’t pay me. You don’t have to worry about the cost. I am working very hard on your daughter’s case. No she--... no, she is not my only case. No, Mrs. Kavelstiek, I cannot work more or harder on her case if you pay me, it doesn’t work like that. No. Yes, I’m sorry. Mrs. K I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this conversation tomorrow, my office is closing. Yes, thank you, have a good night. Of course. Thank you, you too. Yes, good bye.”

 

Sam dropped the phone home into its cradle like a hot potato. Ruby leaned in the doorway, arms crossed and too amused for her own good. He blew a breath out long and slow, closing his eyes and dropping his head back for good measure. God, his neck muscles were tense. And then suddenly they were melting under his skin like butter as a pair of slim, strong hands rubbed slowly up from the nape of his neck and under his hair. He nearly shivered with how good it felt.

 

“It’s a damn shame, you know. If we could just get rid of that conscience of yours, you’d make a killer lawyer. But you’re just an average lawyer, so no penthouse apartment for you.”

 

Sam made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “And if you had just a tiny bit more empathy you’d be an amazing para-legal, but you’re just an average para-legal, so no Christmas bonus for you.”

 

She snickered, and brought her cat-sharp nails into play, running bright lines of pain/pleasure up his scalp. “Is that any way to talk to the woman who is saving you hundreds of dollars at a massage table right now?”

 

Sam swiveled in his chair, hooking his long legs up and under Ruby’s knees and sliding her onto his lap with a shy smile. “Talking is what I do. Lots of talking. So much talking.”

 

“Too much talking,” Ruby said, pulling his face up to hers and kissing him into silence. Sam’s arms slid around her, more cradle and caress than desire and decision. It was nice, but frustrating. He had always been a bit more of a follower than she liked, and it was starting to wear on her. Sam was lovely, but she preferred him with an edge. They needed a drink. Or several. Or...

 

She pulled away, after a gentle nip at his chin. “What do you say we take those case files back to my place, open a bottle of wine… and then completely ignore the case files and the wine and fuck ‘til we can’t see straight?”

 

Sam nuzzled where her jaw met her neck, and she hummed in approval. “Except,” he said, muffled against her skin _oh bite it, bite my neck right there damn it_ , “the minute I’m horizontal, I’ll be out like a light. This is getting close on 24 hours for me, and it’s only Tuesday. I won’t be that much fun.”

 

“Sex standing up.”

 

“Last time we did that you dislocated my shoulder.”

 

“Poor baby.”

 

“I’m gonna let that slide if it means I can keep my writing hand out of a sling.”

 

She huffed in disappointment, and started to slide out of his arms. Sam tightened them around her, nipping at her neck, and she jumped a little with the quick flash of heat that it sent down her body. “Sam… Sam”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Dammit Sam, don’t start things you don’t intend to finish.”

 

He sighed, and wrapped her more closely in his arms. She tried not to growl.

 

“I’m sorry Ruby. You know I want to. I’m just exhausted, and my caseload--”

 

“You don’t have to be exhausted, you know.”

 

They sat for a moment as the implication sunk in.

 

“You know how I feel about that stuff.”

 

“You didn’t mind it so much in college.”

 

“College was different. This is my career. Hell, I put people away sometimes for doing exactly what you’re suggesting.”

 

“Having mind blowing sex?”

 

“Having a coke habit.”

 

“Habit requires repetition, counsellor, and you partake too intermittently.”

 

He did bite her then, pressing her hips closer to his with a whisper of a moan. She rolled down against him, the soft line of her cheek through her skirt chasing heat and pressure, and they both tensed. “I hate it when you talk lawyer to me,” he growled.

 

“The prosecution would like to call attention to the defendant’s shocking neglect of himself and his partner, resulting in damages attributable to stressful working conditions, undercompensation for hours spent nursing the defendant, and a truly horrifying lack of sexual activity. How do you plead?”

 

She felt her stomach take that rollercoaster thrill dip as he stood and turned with her in his arms, but it was nothing compared to the plunge when he rocked into her through their clothes, his hands like a vise around her waist. As quickly as she was in the air, his lips tight and warm against hers, she was down again, the cool wood of the desk underneath her sending electricity up her spine and down to her fingertips. Then he was gone, crossing the small room in barely two strides and locking the office door.

 

He was going to hate himself in the morning, he knew. This was an expenditure of energy he didn’t have, but Ruby had started talking and well… the little voice that sometimes guarded him against her less gentle _(ruthless)_ side never seemed to match the blood that pounded the litany of _lis-ten-lis-ten-lis-ten_ through his veins. He turned in time to see her shrug off her sheer mulberry blouse and the dusky expanse of her skin, nothing but shoulders where a bra usually clung, destroyed any attempt at resolve he may have tried to make.

 

He caught a thigh in each hand as she moved to wrap them around him, his wide palms sliding up and up and up her bare skin, stopping just at the edge of her skirt. Long fingers closed around her legs, and she was drawn inexorably across the desk until the skirt was no more a barrier between them than a piece of waxed paper between two brushfires. Better, thought Ruby, bringing her hands up to tangle in that long soft hair--

 

Hands that were caught quick as lightning and pulled above her head, bringing her chest just a hairsbreadth away from Sam’s. The lack of pressure, to be so close to all that heat and hardness, being held just that tiny bit apart was going to drive her crazy. Already the low pleasure in her hips was starting to gain an edge. This was more like it.

 

Sam smirked, and leaned just that little bit closer…

 

“Guilty on all counts.”

 

Two hands around her wrists became one, and her skirt bunched silently toward her waist as Sam flicked his thumb over her clit, chuckling as she bucked instinctively towards his fingers. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip as she bit off a groan, but her black eyes blazed challenge at him and she tilted her chin up in defiance.

 

Perfect.

 

Sam closed his teeth where the curve of her neck met her shoulder, and her body tensed again, wrists breaking free of his grip. That was more than fine by him when those clever hands went straight to his belt, button and fly. He was free in a moment, and her teeth closing around his ear nearly broke the limits of his restraint. With a curse he snapped the tiny seam holding her thong together and brushed the pieces aside, sliding those long fingers into wet and heat and between taut, trembling muscles. He brushed his thumb upward into the ache and drive, and Ruby’s head tilted back with a moan as her hips jumped against the pressure of his fingers. Nails raked up his back, legs tightened, and with a speed that neither of them could control and with no eyes for anything but each other’s heated gaze the desk was cleared, files crashing to the floor as Sam pressed Ruby flat to the desk, an arm around her hips sliding her body down the desk right to the edge. She could feel the head of his cock, slick and wet and heavy resting against her, and she relaxed back into the ageless pounding in the blood, _the want, want, want_ of desire pooling and spreading its hot fingers through her hips.

Then with a jerk her legs were pulled wider, and her breath escaped in a cry as Sam pierced her in one long hard stroke. She was full and aching and power was building as she buried her hands in his hair, tugging him closer, urging him to drive harder. He moved, slid, slippped, stroked, hands flowing down her body as time flowed away from them into the pounding rhythm and the pleasure. He could feel her tighten and contract around him, sending fire and electricity through every muscle, down to the tip of his cock and he slammed harder into her, chasing that fire through her body. There was nothing more to life than lips and teeth and hands grasping at flesh, staggering flashes of pleasure like arc lightning through their bodies.

 

“S-sam, yes, faster, I can feel it, oh fuck Sam it’s coming!”

 

He felt himself harden even further at the thick desperation in her voice, and suddenly everything was clear and sharp and good, painfully good- she was almost too tight, every tiny silken centimeter his sensitive cock pressed through was a velvet dagger through his spine. He had to come, now, she had to, too much, not enough, harder, faster, speed and pressure and a sudden scream as Ruby arched upwards, wrapping around him and tightening beyond the point of his control, as though she were made to wrench every ounce of pleasure from him. He staggered as he came, thrusting through  the sensation as wave after wave of ecstasy calmed, quelled, slowed. They shook together, wrapping themselves in each others arms as the aftershocks passed.

 

Sam nuzzled her neck gently, pulling her long hair away from his face as he slid gently out of her, then pulled her down into the chair with him. She curled like a cat in his arms, limp and purring and coiled with lazy power. He kissed her forehead, and she sighed.

 

“Mmm…”

 

Sam chuckled. “A little happier now?”

 

“Not bad, counselor. The jury is still out though. Better take me home and tuck me in while they deliberate.”

 

Sam nodded against her hair, and stood, depositing her gently on her feet. “Then lets get you home, I’d hate to be held in contempt.”

 

The stood for a moment, surveying the wreckage of Sam’s desk. Papers, files, pencils, half eaten sandwiches- it looked like a minor apocalypse.

 

“We’ll lock the door and clean up in the morning Sam. Promise.”

 

He lifted her fingers to his lips absently and kissed them. “All right Ruby.”

Above them, the Imperial March played out from the clock- it was officially midnight. They caught a cab home- Sam pretended it was the early spring cold that made him splurge on a cab, but in truth, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to walk the ten blocks. He was beyond exhausted.

 

_But happy, right?_

 

Sam looked at Ruby, nestled against him in the back of the cab and half asleep herself. He thought of Dean, with a twinge of guilt, and then deliberately buried it.

_  
Happy. Right.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First attempt at smut. I don't think I'm cut out for it. But, there you are.


End file.
